


Yeah

by Southbroom



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, Mostly spoiler-free, Post-Career of Evil, Robin POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-06-08 18:55:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15249843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Southbroom/pseuds/Southbroom
Summary: He nodded, barely concealing his yawn with a goodbye. Her lips quirked up at the sight of his hair sticking up.





	Yeah

**Author's Note:**

> This ficlet was inspired by this extract from Chapter 23 of "Career of Evil":  
> "Strike noted how much he liked making her laugh."  
> JKR is the best.

“I think I’m going home now.” 

“Yeah?” Strike asked, his head rising from where it rested on his desk. He was doing a terrible job of pretending he hadn’t dosed off. 

It was late. They had been debating their new case, arguing over new evidence. After a long chat on the farting couch they returned to their respective desks to work, her on the ancient PC and him on his new laptop. The time seemed to fly, slip away. It was eleven o’clock, she noted, with surprise.

“Need me to escort you to the tube station?” he asked dryly.

“I am sure I’ll be fine.” Robin said, enjoying his reference to the days when the Shacklewell Ripper and his jacket full of knives were still a concern in their lives.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Cormoran.”

He nodded, barely concealing his yawn with a goodbye. Her lips quirked up at the sight of his hair sticking up.

x

The tube wasn’t busy, it was nearly midnight after all. That was why she saw him immediately.

Handsome, chiselled face. Groomed hair. Pressed suit. 

_Matthew._

Her insides curdled. Robin felt the temptation to turn around and find another carriage, but decided that that was cowardice. Instead, she took a seat beside her ex-husband, seeing his surprised face.

It was easy to talk to him. _Of course it’s easy to talk to talk to him, you married him._ Robin took pride in herself that she didn’t mind him talking about Sarah Shadlock and their new Islington (exactly how much bloody money is he making now!?) flat. It didn’t even bother Robin that he had given his grandmother’s wedding ring to her – the ring he had always promised her. Or that Sarah had gotten him a kitten for his birthday (Matthew always was a cat person).

Robin was genuinely happy for him. Their poisonous marriage lasted a grand total of two months. The divorce was a unanimous decision that had both made on the floor of their flat, both of their faces gleaming with tears. That was a long time ago, it seemed to Robin. Although twenty-nine was not much more significant than twenty-five, she felt a lot wiser.

“How’s Strike?” Matthew questioned, not unpleasantly.

“The business is going great.” She said humbly.

 _C.B. Strike and R.V. Ellacott Private Investigators_ had business booming. They had solved many of the city’s most famous crime cases since her divorce. There were late nights and early mornings but also many pub lunches with pints of Doom Bar. The long battle with finances ended when they solved a case of a murdered BBC news presenter. The presenter’s father was one of those castle-inheriting, upper-class blokes who thanked them with a generous amount of capital and publicity.

Robin and Strike had hired a girl to do all the office admin so that Robin could do more surveillance work. Strike had repairedher family’s old Land Rover as a birthday present for Robin one year. In return, Robin arranged a surprise road trip to Cornwall with Shanker where she met Strike’s aunt and uncle for the first time.

 “I mean, did you and Strike ever…” Matthew trailed off.

 “No.” Robin said quickly, used to the question being raised.

She relished her single life. It was glorious that freedom she felt – not being attached to a needy-accountant-boyfriend of nine years. Robin still lived in a shoebox flat, but she had saved up to go on a solo back packing trip to Iceland (sending a postcard to Cormoran at every picturesque mountain peak). She planned to visit New York in the upcoming year.

People always assumed that she and Strike had some affair going on. _A relationship with Cormoran just would not work_ , she knew this from the bottom of her gut. Robin was not prepared to risk the equilibrium of the business. And Strike had had his flings with violinists and socialites and actresses. It was not like she could complete with any of his girlfriends anyway. Not that she wanted to. Strike was Strike. _You can’t date your work partner anyway_.

“Really?” said Matthew in surprise, “I’m pretty sure I read about you two getting engaged in The Sun or something?”

“ _The Sun_?” Robin was surprised Matthew knew tabloids like that even existed. “That’s news to me.” She chuckled, and then proceeded to tell him about Iceland and Candice the new secretary and Strike and his new prosthetic leg.

“There's less tension and weight on his knee now so he can do sports again. He stared with boxing - apparently he was a champ in the army. Mind you, he’s even started losing weight.” 

“That’s great, Rob.” Matthew said, pausing, carefully thinking of how to construct his next words.

“I am glad that you found your vocation.”

“That’s nice of you to say-“

“No, let me finish.” He said, commanding her silent. He clenched his fists. “I was an arse about the whole Strike thing. I was jealous of you and your… your passion for your job. And I know there were others things that split us up, but I am sorry for being jealous of you and Strike.

“If it makes you feel any better, I was miserable for a long after we split-“

“Me too-"

“But I’m not now. Sarah, she makes me…” He beamed, “Well, I really think you deserve that too, Robin. I think you should tell Strike how you feel-“ 

“I am not _in love_ with Strike.” She scoffed, regretting the words as they left her mouth.

Matthew raised his eyebrows at her horrified face. He watched her for a while, Robin wanting to hit herself for not being able to find a response.

“This is my stop.” Matthew announced, slipping away as Robin remained in her apparent paralyzed state.

“Hey Matt! Thank you!” she called after him. He waved and she sank back on the seat. The train pulled away.

Her hazy reflection looked back at her in the window. Robin mouthed “I-am-not-in-love-with-Strike” at it, shaking her head. Silly of Matthew to think so. And Shanker. And her mother. Martin and his "How's it going with old Hopalong? Wedding bells ringing yet?".  _Ridiculous_.

Robin thought, suddenly, of how sleepy he had looked when she parted from him, just half-an-hour ago. She wondered why their argument in the kitchenette had made her so happy and how she couldn't stop laughing at whatever he said. When she left him in the office her hand had been itching to smoothen out his messy hair, return a wayward curl to the carpet on his head.

Robin got off on the next stop and switched platforms. She clenched her handbag, and started speed walking until she reached Denmark Street. Only then did she start regretting her actions. She stopped dead, the absence of her high heels beating on the pavement was unsettling.

She saw that his attic light was still on, and that it was 12:06. The underground recently closed, she knew, so there was no turning back unless she called for a taxi. She stared down the length of the street, seeing no cars in sight. Robin believed it was a sign of sorts. 

“What the hell.” She shrugged, approaching the narrow staircase she was so familiar with. A quick hike up the stairs, a reluctant knock on the door later and Robin heard his familiar baritone.

“One minute! Who’s there?”

She gulped. There was still time to get a taxi, still time to go down the stairs.

“Who’s there?” he repeated, suspicion evident in his voice. “Shanker? Pub date’s tomorrow, mate.”

“Oh, it’s you.” Strike said, pulling the whole door open for her. 

She stepped inside. The tellie was on, with a packet of open crisps on the couch. Unlike most bachelor flats, Strike’s was clean with military precision, not without a crying need for personality.   

“Are you alright?” He looked concerned.

“There’s no one here, right?” She asked anxiously, expecting a woman in his bedroom.

“Just me.” Strike said, a question in the air.

“Yeah.” Robin looked up at him, wondering why on Earth she had listened to Matthew. “I was getting take-out and lost track of the time. The tube closed.” She said lamely. 

His eyes met hers, and Robin though for a second that Strike picked up on her white lie. If he did, he had chosen to ignore it.

“Couldn’t you just get a – oh, right. Saving up for America.”

“Yeah.” She said uncomfortably, “I can sleep on the couch.”

“No, you can take my bed. It’s no bother.” 

“Don’t be simple.” Robin argued, putting on the kettle, “You’re built like a bear. You’d never fit on that.”

“And you’re my guest-“ 

“-uninvited guest-“ 

They bickered for a minute before Strike agreed for her to take the couch, if (he insisted) she used his duvet. With sleeping plans made, they settled side-by-side on the cramped couch, tea in hand, both staring blankly at the television screen. 

“What take-out?” 

“Sorry?”

“What take-out place made you miss the train?”

“Oh. Waseem’s.” she said, “They have a great chicken tikka.” 

He nodded, stretching his legs out onto the wooden planks. He was wearing sweatpants and socks, both blue in colour, with his button-down work shirt still on. She had removed her shoes too, and her feet beside Strike’s was amusing. His were gigantic. Robin could tell which one was completed by his prosthesis - its shape seemed too elegant to be a real foot. Either way, her petite feet were dwarfed by his.

The domesticity of it all struck her, as did her original purpose for coming up to his flat. She flushed, thinking of how her original thoughts had gone as she ran from the station. She thought of kissing him when he opened the door, or perhaps waiting and confessing... _Confessing what exactly_? Those thoughts seemed foolish now.

Robin supposed she could bring up the case they were working on, but that seemed inappropriate too.

She risked a glance at him. He was looking at their feet too, but his mind was far away. Her eyes skimmed over his stubble, where the hairs continued down his neck and disappeared into his shirt. Strike’s boyish eyes frowned, creases forming at their sides. She nearly jumped when they flickered at her.

“Cormoran.”

“Yes?”

“I didn’t really go to Waseem’s.”

“I know.”

She swallowed. _Jesus this is awkward._ “I actually ran into Matthew.”

“Matthew?” He pulled a face, “Knobhead. What did he want?”

“He and Sarah are engaged now.” She said, noting the disappointment in her own voice, “Well, Matthew thought that well.. you see, he told me… Never mind, It’s silly. I shouldn’t have.”

“ ‘s okay, you can tell me.” His eyes seemed eager.

“Well you see, he and Sarah…Well I- I wanted to come here- I left the station to“

Strike let out a wheezing laugh.

“What?” 

“Nothing.”

She raised one eyebrow at him.

“You look petrified. And you can’t seem to construct a coherent sentence…” He teased.

“I’m – I’m trying!" 

He broke into laugher again, and she punched him. Robin sulked for a moment, but she couldn’t refrain from joining him, and their shoulders bumped as they laughed.

The movie playing on the tellie changed scenes from the bright interior of a  spaceship to the ominous darkness of space. The lack of light seemed to do something, changing the atmosphere of the room. Horizontal lines cast by streetlight outside the blinds fell over Strike’s face, transforming his blue eyes two pools of ink. Right then, Robin pushed herself off balance, leaning far into his space. She pressed a chaste kiss to his lips.

He glanced at her, not having moved a muscle, stony-faced. She panicked just as his face dissolved into another grin.

“What is _wrong_ with you?” She snapped, returning to her half of the couch.

“Robin.” He was amused, “Robin, seriously? _Robin."_  

Her heart leapt as she felt his hand on her jaw. He turned her to face him again, something unspoken in the air. Yes, there was a good reason why Cormoran Strike had been able to seduce violinists and actresses. The sincerity of his expression stirred something inside her. _I am not in love with Strike_ , she repeated the comfortable lie.

His thumb pressed lightly into her cheek. The sides of his eyes crinkled at her. It was her call, she knew.

“Yeah.” And that was the last time she thought about it properly.

“Yeah?” he asked.

“Yeah.” She confirmed.

A forgotten tea got knocked over, she sound echoing. No one cared. Her hands were on his chest, his shoulders, curling into his dense hair. His were in her flaming locks, sliding down her waist. He grinned like a dog between kisses.

“Yeah.” She caught him repeating. She giggled.

x

No one slept on the couch that night. 

No one travelled to New York alone either.

 


End file.
